


It's Time

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Charmie, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Hollywood, Infidelity, Love, M/M, Men Crying, Near Future, True Love, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 09:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18259001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: In the not too distant future, Timothee Chalamet and Armie Hammer face a five-year-old secret ...“I’m not hiding you anymore. I’m leaving Liz. I’m coming out.”





	It's Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is TOTALLY a work of fiction. 
> 
> That said, I am fascinated by how close Armie and Timmy remain years after filming CMBYN. I'm happy they have such a strong friendship, but sometimes, it feels like ... more? 
> 
> I'm not sure if I could see this happening someday, especially with all the judgment out there. People claim to be tolerant and accepting, but are they really? These are the battles the boys must face, but in an ideal world, maybe this could happen.
> 
> (Lots of love to Liz; sorry she gets sorta crushed in this one.)

__

_**February 2020 ...** _

            They have a fight in the hotel room before the event, and Timmy isn’t sure what they’re fighting about. Well, maybe they aren’t fighting; maybe Armie is fighting _at him_. As he paces, it’s almost like he talks to himself.

            “You’re doing too much,” he says. “You have to slow down.” Back and forth, he stomps across the hotel room, occasionally running his hands through his hair—longer than usual right now for a role. “You’re going to … You just can’t …” He sighs.

            Armie isn’t wrong.

            Since wrapping _Dune_ (a grueling six months, to be sure), Timmy has already signed on to two new projects, one with a French director for a film in which Timmy will speak entirely in French. He’s bridging cultural gaps all over the place—except for that final big leap.

            The leap from heterosexual to homosexual.

            The leap from award-winning actor to home-wrecker.

            Armie said Timmy looked tired hours ago when he first walked into Timmy’s hotel room. (They always booked two rooms, even if they spent the nights sweaty and wrapped together.) Armie said he looked too skinny, gaunt. Timmy could see it in Armie’s face, the way his memories went back to _Beautiful Boy_ and how Timmy had been so sick for months after. No one else noticed these kinds of differences—only Armie, who watched him, studied him, as though prepared to catch him if he fell apart.

            Despite Timmy’s exhaustion, they made love anyway. It was good, not great, because Armie seemed distracted.

            Now, within the hour, they’ll climb into a limo that will take them to an award ceremony for Luca Guadagnino, the man who single-handedly, accidentally ruined both their lives while giving them the greatest gift: love. Real, horrible, beautiful love.

            Of course they are expected to attend. They are Luca’s golden boys, and as whispers grow ever louder about the _Call Me By Your Name_ sequel (Timmy is dragging his feet; it feels too personal what with his and Armie’s secret situation), their lights will soon shine even brighter.

            That is if Armie doesn’t lock Timmy in a closet first, force-feeding him pastries and making him sleep. (“Stop working. Stop moving. Just fucking _stop.”)_

            Armie doesn’t understand it's the work that keeps Timmy sane.

            When he spends so much emotional space thinking about Armie and how Liz has grown to possibly hate them both—

            When he spends so much time worrying they will be caught—

            When he simultaneously loves having Armie around and hates it because it reminds him of all they can't have, not in their uptight, conservative Hollywood, no.

            Timmy works and works some more to fill the void of a healthy relationship with the man he loves so much it hurts. At twenty-four, he aches inside. He feels very, very old and so very tired sometimes, all because, as a naïve nineteen-year-old, he met the great Armie Hammer and let things happen.

            He isn’t solely to blame. They both “let things happen.”

            (Timmy on Armie’s lap back in Crema after too much wine one night, not even asking before going in for a kiss.

            Armie sliding his hands up Timmy’s spine, kissing back.

            Everything escalating to the point of that conversation weeks later: “Are you sure you want me to be your first?” Armie not believing it. Armie not mentioning his wife.

            Timmy, feeling more confident than he had in his entire life, saying, “Yes.”        

            There were so many yes moments in Crema, breathed beneath sheets and in shady alcoves and even on set. _Yes, yes yes_.)

            “No.” Armie grabs onto Timmy’s shoulders and shakes him where he sits on the bed’s edge. “You have to stop this.”

            “Stop what?”

            Armie doesn’t look like Armie. He looks hysterical, red in the face, like he might start crying. This is not like Armie. “I’m so fucking worried about you.”

            “I’m fine. I’ve told you a dozen times.”

            Armie stands and waves his words away. “Yeah, over FaceTime. I couldn’t see you properly then. I see you, and I don’t like … this.” He gestures to Timmy’s perfectly tailored Ackerman black tux with the silver accents that will shimmer perfectly beneath all those red carpet flashbulbs.

            “Man, I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” He shifts past Armie and into the bathroom where he checks his reflection one last time. He pushes hair behind his ears before ruffling it, shaking it out. It’s longer than it’s ever been. “We have to go. I don’t know what we’re talking about, but we can keep talking about it later, okay?”

            Armie has already opened the door and stepped into the hall. Based on the sound of his shoes, he doesn’t wait.

*******

            The flashbulbs feel brighter than usual, or maybe Timmy’s eyes are just tired. Armie's right; he is tired. Ever since _Call Me By Your Name_ , it’s been nothing but go-go-go career-wise, while sneaking around with the married, “straight” love of his life and posing for pictures with attractive women who know they’re just beards.

            The women sign non-disclosure agreements, and nobody complains. Being seen with Timothee Chalamet is a boost up the social ladder. He’s _somebody_ now, even if he still feels like nobody most of the time. He’s still never gotten over his self-loathing, and being the “other woman” for five years hasn’t helped.

            Luca passes by, kissing Timmy on both cheeks before remarking over how beautiful he looks with the longer hair. He kisses Armie, too, of course.

            Armie is ten feet away, farther up the red carpet, but he glances back at Timmy every once in a while. When photographers start screaming their names in chorus, Armie beckons him forward.

            They both put on their rehearsed smiles—the one Timmy was taught by that modeling teacher back when he was only seventeen and new to this whole thing. He’s a master now of the sultry stare, wielding his bedroom eyes like a goddamn weapon.

            Because their bodies are so in sync, Armie’s hand tucks perfectly around the side of Timmy’s prominent ribs and squeezes, while Timmy loops his arm casually around Armie’s lower back.

            Cameras flash.

            _They all know_ , Timmy thinks. They must. He feels so obvious—the way he looks at Armie, hugs Armie, but then, Armie pulls his hand away.

            He doesn’t walk away, though. He turns his back to the photographers, so Timmy does the same. Despite all the people watching, Armie says it, right there: “I can’t do this anymore.”

            Timmy is a master at schooling his features. He takes a slow breath and sort of smiles like Armie just said something terribly clever. “What? What do you mean? Us?”

            “No.” He shakes his head, suddenly looking uncomfortable in his Armani suit, tugging on his collar. “No, I’m not hiding you anymore. I’m leaving Liz. I’m coming out.”

            Somehow, this is worse than the thought of them breaking up. “Armie, you can’t …” He shakes his head and gives another little smile for the cameras so they can’t tell he’s about to be sick. “We need to talk about this.”

            “We just did,” Armie says. His blue eyes glow. “Now, think about it. Please. I can’t fake it anymore, Tim.” He puts a huge, familiar hand on Timmy’s shoulder and gives him a playful shake before gluing on his megawatt smile and feeding the hungry reporters.

            Timmy’s fingers tremble when he pushes curls behind his ear, but he does it: he smiles and poses the way he should to make the suit look best.

            Later, he gives a little speech about Luca in front of hundreds of people. It’s self-deprecating and funny and awkward, as usual. Timmy spews words of love as he looks over the crowd at his once and perhaps future director.

            He never once thinks _I hate you. Look what you did to me. How could you do this to me? I was just a fucking kid. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. I’m breaking apart; can’t you see that? Help me. Help me. Help me._

***

            Armie doesn’t offer to come to Timmy’s room after. Timmy thinks Armie knows him better than that—knows he now needs time alone to think.

            Except he can’t be alone, not quite yet. He calls Saoirse.

            “Pony!” she squeals into the phone.

            Timmy is about to greet her, but his breath shakes instead. He can’t get words out.

            “Tim? Timmy?” She sounds panicked. “What is it?”

            He exhales and sobs once, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his hotel bed that smells like Armie and sex. “I’m sorry. I just needed … Armie, he—”

            Her tone changes from panic to anger. “What did he do?”

            The Saoirse / Armie dynamic has always been contentious. They’re friends because of Timmy, but Saoirse has never liked that Armie is married, no matter how much Timmy loves him or how well Armie treats his young lover.

            God, that’s what he has always been: Armie’s _lover._ Not his boyfriend or partner or husband—his lover. But now, Armie wants more.

            Tim buries a hand in his hair. “He didn’t do anything, Sersh. God, he’s been so tightly wound since I got here. I just thought he …” Timmy sniffs. “I thought he missed me a lot.”

            “He did, Tim. God, he missed you terrible.”

            “I know.” He nods.

            Through the phone, he hears a door shut—probably Saoirse looking for some privacy as her voice lowers. “What’s the matter, Pony?”

            “He wants to come out.” Timmy pulls on the side of his sock. “He says he’s leaving Liz.”

            There is a silent pause before: “Fuck.”

            Timmy laugh-sobs and wipes tears from his cheeks. “I don’t know if I can do this, Sersh.”

            “Okay, just calm down now, all right? No decisions have been made. He wouldn’t do anything without your approval, would he? Timmy, you know he wouldn’t.”

            “I know.”

            He did know. The last thing Armie wants to do is hurt Timmy. That was apparent from the start.

            Like the time he worried about Timmy’s toes burning on that hot Italian pavement and let him stand on his feet. Or all the times he comforted and shielded Timmy during the press tour. Or all the times he used his talented fingers to slowly, slowly open Timmy up in bed. They never fucked hard. It was always gentle, always making love.

            But because Armie never wants to hurt Timmy, he also keeps things from him. Armie has no idea Timmy overheard that fight between him and Liz when Timmy visited LA for his birthday in December.

            (He was supposed to be napping. Instead, he was too hungry to sleep. He was about to walk into the kitchen when he heard hushed voices: Armie and Liz. Timmy had to practically lean against the door to hear.

            “That movie ruined our marriage,” she said. “Years later, and they’re still asking about you and Timmy in interviews. They want to know the last time you FaceTimed. You’re practically broadcasting to the world how much he still means to you after your … your sensual Italian summer.”

            “Our marriage was already over, Liz. We were keeping up appearances.”

            “You never loved me the way you love him.”

            “Maybe you never let me.”

            “What’s so special about him?” She didn’t sound upset. She sounded like an accountant rattling off numbers.

            “I don’t know. It’s nothing I can explain.”

            “They won’t let you love him. Not the way you want to.”

            _They._

            She was talking about their agents: Timmy’s and Armie’s. They’d been over this time and again. Their relationship had to remain secret or the public relations nightmare could destroy both their careers.

            Timmy expected some kind of fight from Armie. Instead, his usually resonant voice sounded quiet, broken. “I know. And it kills me more and more every day.”

            Timmy crept back upstairs to the guest room. Guest room. Bullshit. It was his and Armie’s room whenever Timmy visited. He huddled under the covers and thought about Armie—his Armie—dying bit by bit.)

            “Timmy? You still there, sweetheart?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Let’s be rational, not emotional.”

            He leans back against the headboard. “We’ve been rational for years, Sersh. Maybe it’s time for a different approach.”

            “They’ll vilify you.”

            He squeezes his eyes shut, but the tears keep coming.

            “They’ll say you broke up his marriage. You know they will.”

            (Oh, the all-powerful _they.)_

            “Well, I did.”

            “No.” She growls through the phone. “You will not take full responsibility for that. HIs marriage was already dying.”

            “It just felt so right. He feels so right.”

            “Oh, Timmy ..."

            “He’s offering to give me everything I want, and now, I don’t know if I want it.” God, will he ever stop crying?

            “Don’t be a idiot. It’s not that simple.”

            She's right. He might be young, but he’s smart. He knows a lot more about the world than most people his age. He even out-paces wise Saoirse Ronan in life experiences. Yes, Timothee Chalamet _knows._

            “What if I tell him no? Tell him we have to hide forever. Do you think he’ll leave me?” His voice cracks on the last words.

            “Never. He would never leave you.”

            “Sometimes, I wonder why he loves me.”

            “God, Timmy, stop.” He hears the annoyed, clipped pronunciation and knows she’s pissed. “You need to calm down now and think—just think. This isn’t business anymore. This isn’t Hollywood, and it’s not a movie. This is real. This is your real life. What do you want to do with it?”

            He covers his face with his hand and says, “I love you,” before hanging up.

***

            Sitting alone in the dark, Timmy thinks about visiting the bar in his room, making a drink. Maybe just chugging a mini bottle honestly, but alcohol never helped in the past. He has watched Armie get raging drunk before, trying to bury his feelings for Timmy. Well, not exactly that: bury his feelings about keeping Timmy a secret more like.

            No, alcohol helps nothing, and Timmy isn’t much of a drinker anyway.

            There are so many other people he could call. Saoirse is always first, but there is Timmy’s mom or Pauline or his agent, Brian. But he knows what Brian will say. He made the mistake of telling him about the “I love you,” didn’t he?

            (Timmy surprised Armie by showing up at _Straight White Men_ in New York. It was his city, after all; he knew how to be sneaky.

            That night, they made love in Timmy’s apartment, a total mess since he’d been gone so long filming _The King_ , which eventually won him an Emmy. They didn’t even have lube and had to use old coconut oil from Timmy’s bare pantry.

            In the morning, Timmy—in nothing but Armie’s shirt—cooked the last two eggs in his fridge. Armie walked in and, apropos of nothing, said, “I love you.”

            Timmy doesn’t remember much after that. It was kind of a blur. He does remember a lot of silence and staring and Armie eventually rushing over to take the spatula from Timmy’s hand.

            “The eggs are burning,” he whispered, turning off the stove.

            Timmy still isn’t sure why he started sobbing against Armie’s chest, but he did, and Armie—not always a patient man—just pet his too-short hair, still flattened from wearing a hat the night before.  

            Timmy said “I love you” in response about an hour later, after he’d stopped seeing spots. He knew Armie loved him, in theory and in front of the _Call Me By Your Name_ press, but to have it said in such a quiet, intimate moment after months apart? Timmy wasn’t prepared.

            He also knew it meant he was totally fucked. They both were. If they’d moved beyond the worshipping of each others’ bodies and into shared hearts, those hearts were bound to be broken.

            _Worth it_ , Timmy remembered thinking at the time.

            Then, he told Brian, and Brian went ballistic, said he shouldn’t see Armie anymore, said they had to stop before things got out of control. It was hard enough to explain all the events they mysteriously did together—hard enough to explain the way they hugged and touched, so intimate in public because they were so actively intimate in private.

            Brian told him to stop; Timmy did not listen.)

            Now this.

            _I’m not hiding you anymore. I’m leaving Liz. I’m coming out._

            Timothee Chalamet, the dirty little secret but also Hollywood’s golden boy. In that moment, he doesn’t feel golden at all. He feels tarnished, used, and old. He can admit it now: he’s on his way to a breakdown and probably has been since he was, like, twelve.

            People always call him a great actor, but they don’t realize how great.

            No one knows about the depression, the anxiety, and the lack of self-love.

            When he was younger, in high school, his therapist liked to tell him he couldn’t love someone else if he didn’t love himself first. She didn’t understand that he had so much love; he just gave it all away. He gave it to his family and friends. To his teachers. To his roles.

            Timmy is and always has been a giver. He gives smiles on red carpets. He gives hugs to fans. He gives award-winning performances.

            Armie was the first person who made Timmy feel deserving of love. Timmy knew he was good-looking and talented, and, shit, his family loved him, obviously. But when Armie first told him, “You’re beautiful,” he heard it. When Armie told him, “You’re amazing,” he finally believed it.

            Timmy somehow did the same for Armie—a great actor in his own right. He once told Timmy, “I was dead before I met you,” despite a lifetime of shining smiles, funny jokes, and clever anecdotes. Despite being Hollywood royalty, Armie was just waiting for Timmy.

            They shield each other, feed each other—protect. Dependency? Okay, maybe, and Timmy’s therapist talks about that, too, how harmful it is to depend on someone else for his happiness. He knows she’s right.

            Whatever decision Timmy makes, it has to be for him. Not for Armie. Not for Hollywood. For him.

            It takes another hour of darkness and silence for Timmy to pick up his phone and dial.

            Armie answers on the second ring. “Tim?”

            He sighs. “Hey. Look, um, I’ve been thinking, and—”

            “Wait. No. I can’t do this over the phone.” The line goes dead. Knowing Armie, he’s pulling on a shirt and running for the door, down the hall to Timmy’s room, and …

            The door beeps as Armie inserts his keycard—because of course Timmy gave him a keycard. He’s out of breath, so he did indeed run, but Timmy was wrong about the shirt. Armie never changed out of his suit. It’s not even ruffled, like Armie spent the past two hours sitting still in a straight-backed chair just … waiting. Maybe he did.

            Armie turns on the bedside lamp, filling the room with a golden glow. As soon as he looks at Timmy, his forehead wrinkles. “You’ve been crying.” He kneels on the edge of the bed and holds Timmy’s face in his hands.

            “Well. Yeah.”

            Armie slumps down on the bed’s edge. “Shit, I’ve been doing this all wrong. I don’t know, I just … I know filming takes a toll. You’ve been working so much—non-stop—and I wanted to tell myself if was because of the filming, the way you look so tired. I wanted to …”

            He’s babbling, and Armie Hammer never babbles. It’s an auditory mimic of their earlier “fight,” Armie pacing and pulling his hair before Luca’s event.

            “I wanted to blame your exhaustion on your schedule, but God, Tim, I’m beginning to think it’s me. Us. Keeping us a secret, I’m afraid it’s hurting you, which is why I can’t keep it a secret anymore. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, you know that, but I think I’ve been doing it for years. Can you ever forgive me?”

            Timmy blinks at him and wraps his arms around his own bent knees before saying, “Marry me.”

            Armie gawks at him, mouth wide, blue eyes blaring. “W-what?”

            Timmy sniffs but doesn’t repeat himself.

            Armie buries his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were breaking it off. I thought you were going to tell me to fuck off. Fucking …” He gasps for air. “Shit.”

            Timmy leans forward onto his knees and rubs his hand up and down Armie’s back. It’s been awhile since he’s had a panic attack, but this seems like a good time for it. “Breathe, babe. Breathe, please.”

            Armie breathes, but it’s crappy breathing. It’s phlegmy and wet and quivering.

            Timmy leans his forehead against the side of Armie’s. “Come on. Come back to me.”

            Armie nods, rubbing his face against Timmy’s curls. “Why would you want to marry me?”

            He sighs and tries to collect his thoughts, which are lengthy and muddled due to all the time alone, just working things out. Still, he has to try. “Remember when we first met?”

            Armie nods.

            “As soon as I met you, I felt safe, like I didn’t have to hide anything.”

            “I’ve made you hide for five fucking years.”

            “You didn’t _make_ me do anything.” He tangles Armie’s fingers in his. “Everything we’ve done, everything that’s happened, it’s been you and me.”

            “And agents and publicists and my wife …”

            “No.” He grabs Armie’s chin and makes him look up. “The important shit? The really important shit. The private stuff? The stuff behind closed doors. The love. That’s just you and me.”

            Armie holds his hand tighter. “What’ll the world do with it?”

            Timmy shrugs. “Probably make it ugly. But that’s the world’s problem, not ours.”

            “God, you’ve always been so much braver than me.”

            Timmy scoffs. “Dude, you told me you were getting a divorce tonight—on the red carpet.”

            “I lost it.” Armie shakes his head while caressing Timmy’s wrist. “You looked so fragile today, and I couldn’t help but think it was because of me.”

            “No, you make me stronger. You always have.”

            Timmy knows Armie isn’t a big crier, so when a tear falls down his cheek, Timmy almost immediately starts crying in sympathy. “You’re the strong one,” Armie says.

            Timmy can’t help but straddle his lap and hold on tight. Armie wraps his thick arms around Timmy’s ribs and squeezes, his face pressed against the side of Timmy’s neck.

            “We make each other strong,” Timmy says. “And we’re going to need strength if we do this.”

            “It’s time,” Armie whispers. “It’s time,” he says again.

***

_**February 2021. One year later ...** _

            Timmy has never been more nervous in his life, and he’s trying not to show how nervous he is—which, of course, Armie calls him out on.

            “You’re nervous,” he says in the back of their hired SUV. He nudges Timmy’s arm, and Timmy bats his hand away, stares out the window.

            “Am not.”

            “Are, too.” Armie leans closer, so close his lips tickle Timmy’s ear when he whispers, “I’ve got you, okay?”

            Timmy nods.

            It wasn’t like they weren't prepared for this moment. It was in the works for months, ever since Armie’s divorce was finalized the previous summer. Everything was surprisingly amicable. Liz let him go without much of a fight, but Timmy guessed she’d grown tired of hanging onto someone who wasn’t there, almost like trying to hug a ghost day in and day out. They shared custody of the kids as best they could with Armie's schedule and were slowly becoming awkward friends.

            Of course, social media blew up about infidelity: _Was there someone else in Armie’s life?_

            Armie silently endured the gossip because they had a plan.

            Not their agents.

            Not the publicists.

            Not fucking Hollywood.

            Timmy and Armie made a plan a year ago in a dark hotel room with no one else’s input. They considered both their wrecked hearts but also their careers and figured some shit out—together. Everything together. Just the two of them.

            First, there was the divorce.

            Then, there was the super successful release of _Dune_.

            Then … there was the secret wedding in the Cayman Islands with Timmy’s family (Armie’s declined the invite) and a small circle of friends, sworn to secrecy until today.

            _Today._

            Fuck, they’re coming out as a married couple at the goddamn Oscars.

            Timmy shirked the idea of doing it during all the _Dune_ promo. He didn’t want to overshadow the movie. After all, Timmy is smart. If this tanks his career, at least he won’t drag anyone down with him—oh, except Armie, perhaps, but Armie doesn’t seem to care.

            In fact, Armie has never seemed happier. For months, he’s been the one singing songs in the morning over cups of coffee. He occasionally scoops Timmy up from the couch and spins him around the room. He laughs more, smiles more. There is no more anxious pacing. The little deaths he endured keeping Timmy a secret are gone, replaced by life and more life.

            Timmy is more of a disaster, not because he doubts his decision. He doesn’t doubt the silver ring on his finger, the word “husband.” He just can’t believe it’s real. He keeps expecting to wake up from a dream, cold and lonely in his New York apartment.

            “You’re doing it again,” Armie whispers beside him as they enter the long line of celebrities in fancy cars waiting to step onto the red carpet.

            “Hunh?”

            “You’re looking back and worrying, and I want you here with me now. I need you here with me now.”

            Timmy blows out a slow breath of air and nods.

            “And you look fucking incredible.”

            Timmy blushes—Armie still always makes him blush—and looks down at his simple black suit with the velvet accents, white shirt underneath. He decided to dress simply, old school Hollywood, considering his wedding band is bigger and brighter than anything he’s ever worn before.

            Armie looks classy as hell, too, in his cream-colored tuxedo and black bowtie. His hair is short again, clean cut on the sides, even though he kept a bit of stubble on his jaw. Timmy loves him this way. He loves him all ways.

            Armie clears his throat. “It’s going to be okay, you know?”

            In theory, yes. Neither of them are nominated, although Timmy is a presenter. They are there mostly as guests—no pressure, no politics. That is why they chose the Oscars for the great unveiling. It’s a huge platform, but they won’t be stepping on anyone’s toes in particular … except maybe the Academy’s, but both men have beef with the Academy, so fuck ‘em. That’s what Armie says anyway, which Timmy repeats as he sees the crowds up ahead, cameras flashing.

            “Fuck ‘em,” Armie agrees. “I can’t wait to show off my husband.”  
  
            Timmy ducks and presses his head against Armie’s shoulder.

            “Don’t mess up your hair!” Armie finger-brushes the shaggy curls as Timmy giggles.

            “You like my hair messy.”

            Armie stops trying to fix it. “Fair point.”

            The red carpet now right in front of their door, Timmy leans forward and gives Armie a gentle kiss. Armie’s hand rests on the familiar curve of Timmy’s jaw.

            “I love you,” Timmy says.

            “Love you more.”

            Outside, surrounded by chaos, it takes photographers a little while to catch on. Timmy and Armie have always been friends; them showing up together is no big deal, right?

            Someone must notice the wedding bands. Someone must notice how they’re not posing side-by-side but together with Armie’s arm snug around Timmy’s upper back. People definitely notice when Armie kisses the side of Timmy’s head.

            Timmy doesn’t remember much after that. Like the first time Armie said, “I love you,” it’s all a fuzz of affection, loud voices, and flashing lights. He knows he feels safe. He feels happy. Despite the hefty work schedule, he’s not tired, no.

            When they run into Luca later, Timmy’s long held and silent stewing animosity is gone. This is no longer the man who made his life explode. This is the man who introduced him to his husband, the love of his life.

            Luca takes one look at the pair of them, sipping champagne, and laughs. He laughs in that gargantuan, Italian way of his that is so rare and hugs both of them, an arm around each. He whispers, “Cor cordium,” and disappears before Timmy can think of a single thing to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


End file.
